


Shall We Dance?

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Barbossa's POV, F/M, NOT underage in the 18th century, Pre-CotBP, Sophie as a teenager
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-20 06:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15528327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: During Barbossa's first visit to Grantham House, the maid Sophie was just a child.  During succeeding visits, to both his pleasure and discomfort, he discovers she's anything but.





	1. 15 Years Old

**Author's Note:**

> Told from Barbossa's POV, this follows on from _Refuge_ and covers the next four years in the first chapter of _Ruination_ , during which time Sophie has grown out of childhood. In the early 18th century, girls of 15 were adults, of an age to be seriously courted; at 16, many of them married. Men generally did not marry young — it was expected that they would be settled and making a decent living first; or, in the case of military men, that they would reach a certain rank before marriage would be permitted — so age gaps of 10 or 20 years weren't at all unusual. As a typical man of his era, Barbossa, in his early 30s, would consider it perfectly normal to be drawn to 15-year-old Sophie both emotionally and physically.
> 
>  _Backjowster_ is a term from Barbossa's boyhood meaning "fishwife;" so, too, is _ballyragging_ , which is the way he'd accuse someone of being verbally abusive. These, and countless others, are words he uses when his ire is aroused, especially when he forgets that he wants others to be impressed with his English speech.
> 
> While women were expected to cover their heads with a cap or a hat, the dresses of the era were not terribly modest; they exposed quite a lot of a woman's bosom, even if they covered everything else, with the combination of bodice and stays pushing the breasts sharply upward. A woman like Sophie might wear a light fichu around her neck and tucked into her bodice to protect her chest from hot grease while she was cooking, but it would be removed otherwise.

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

He remembers the girl whenever he thinks of being well-fed and having his requests met with promptness and a smile.  Her grandmother's inn was unlike any rooming house he'd ever stayed at:  blessedly quiet and clean, its kitchen finer than those found (he's certain) in many an upper-class home, and he was accorded proper respect.  No better reason to pay it a second visit… unless it was that charming, dark-eyed maid.  
  
He'd said he'd return.  He'd promised to return.  And here he is, making good on that promise.    
  
As he was the first time, Barbossa is polite and rings the bell, standing back to wait for admittance.  
  
If he expected the old woman who owns the place, he's in for a shock:  in her place stands the maidservant Sophie, surprise and pleasure on her face.  "Captain Barbossa, how good to see you!  Please… do come in."  
  
The same Sophie… but not the same;  still charming and dark-eyed, certainly, but… _Ohhh!_   thinks Barbossa, hardly daring to breathe lest he voice his delight out loud.  _How she's changed._   "Miss Sophia,"  he finally says as he steps through the door.  "Ye're… lookin' well."  
  
Indeed, she is.  Amazing the difference a year can make:  she's taller — the top of her head now reaches just below his shoulder — and so much rounder, with soft breasts that strain against her child's too-tight bodice, and the curve of cleavage where a man might rest his cheek and press warm kisses.  From the front, standing still, her shapeless smock hides nearly everything else, but when she turns and he can watch her glide across the floor, Barbossa sees tempting hips and a small waist defined by stays — _Ha, Old Nan must ha' decided she were woman enough, t' insist she wear 'em!_ — and the way she sways as she walks puts him in mind of how she'd move if ever he got her beneath him in his bed.  
  
_Good thing she be walkin' away an' can't see me!_   Barbossa thinks with a grin, rearranging his sash to hide the telltale, very large bulge that has suddenly appeared in his breeches.  
  
"Captain!  Welcome!"  It's Old Nan's shrill voice, and he promptly wilts when she barks,  "Sophie!  Get yourself back in the kitchen, girl, and start on the bread!"  
  
Were it anywhere else, Barbossa might think twice about staying in any establishment run by such a shrewish innkeeper, but the thought of Sophie being nearby keeps him where he is.  "Landlady,"  he says.  "I'll be wantin' a room for a fortnight.  If ye've th' same as I had last time, o'erlookin' th' garden, I'd be much obliged.  An' this time…"  He lifts a warning eyebrow.  "I'll thank ye t' charge me th' same as ye charge t' others.  Think I didn't know?"  Old Nan turns white, but he puts up a hand.  "Ah, don't fret yerself 'bout it;  jus' that once, I do b'lieve 'twere worth th' extra coin for th' food alone."  
  
The ledger signed, Barbossa accompanies Old Nan upstairs, and Sophie comes out to look at his signature;  doesn't see him come back down.  "I wonder what the H is for?"  she mumbles to herself.  
  
"That'd be 'Hector,' Miss Sophia."  
  
He's standing so close that she bumps into him when she whirls around;  is opening her mouth to beg his pardon when he laughs and gently steadies her.  "I'm so sorry!"  she says, blushing.  
  
"Don't be, lass;  if 'tain't men bashin' int' me aboard ship, then 'tis me ship doin' th' bashin' herself.  Hunh, I be covered in bruises in places I ain't gonna say."  Barbossa chuckles again, then touches the ledger.  "Has yer Gran seen fit t' educate ye, then, Missy?"  he asks.    
  
"Yes, sir,"  Sophie replies, and there's pride in her voice.  "I can read and write very well, I know my maths, some history and maps, a bit of Latin, and the stories of ancient Greece and Rome."  
  
"Greece, eh?  So, d' ye know th' tale of Hector an' what befell him?"  
  
"Yes, Captain."  
  
Barbossa nods.  "He were a brave man, true, but I don't intend t' end up like him."  
  
Sophie can barely look him in the eye as she whispers,  "I'm glad."  
  
He's surprised by her answer — agreeably so — and starts to smile, but he's puzzled by the expression he can see on her face:  perhaps shyness or shame for speaking so boldly?  "Miss Sophia…"  
  
She blushes again and slips away before Barbossa can finish the sentence, leaving him to wonder if he frightens her, or perhaps if it's a warmer emotion than that.  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-      
  
  
  
Sophie is serving at table, and Barbossa sees that she's much stronger this year;  that she doesn't struggle with the plates and platters anymore.  He fingers the grease stain she left on his waistcoat the previous year, now thoroughly set in, and smiles to himself.  _It were worth it just' t' meet an' have words wi' th' lass._    
  
Though Sophie will prepare the peppered chicken he likes so much on another evening, tonight's dinner is a succulent, spicy rabbit stew with onions and root vegetables browned to bring out their best flavor, served with fluffy, lime-scented rice and stacks of the bread she baked just this afternoon.  "Ye've a true talent in th' kitchen, Missy,"  he says halfway through the meal as he mops up the gravy with a crust on his plate, popping it in his mouth with a groan any whore would recognize as one of sensual pleasure.  "Were ye a man, I'd be pressin' ye forthwith int' service aboard me ship, for sailors run best when they run on a well-filled stomach!  But a woman, 'specially of such tender years as yerself, must needs stay ashore, so we'll all be thankful t' have th' hospitality of Grantham House."  Then he lifts his goblet of wine in a toast to Sophie and looks around the table at his fellow lodgers.  "Eh, gents?  T' th' cook as prepared this fine supper!"  
  
They follow his lead, wishing they'd thought of it themselves.  "Aye:  th' cook!"  
  
"None of that, now, Captain, or you'll be giving the girl a swelled head,"  Old Nan cuts in loudly.  
  
Barbossa takes a long swig of wine and laughs.  "She'll be entitled now'n again, hard as she works."  _An' I'll thank ye t' quit yer ballyraggin', y' old backjowster!_   he silently adds.  
  
Embarrassed, if pleased, Sophie silently serves the rest of the meal, careful not to catch either his gaze or her Nan's;  vanishes before the men get up from the table, to Barbossa's regret, but that's all right;  with luck, he'll see her for a moment later once he makes known his one special request.  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
"Mayhap ye'll remember I'm requirin' two or three extra candles each night,"  Barbossa instructs Old Nan,  "for 'tis m' habit t' read awhile afore sleepin'."  
  
"I do recall, Captain, and I'll send Sophie up to supply what you need."  
  
By not one twitch does Barbossa betray how amused he is by what Old Nan has inadvertently suggested, or that part of the reason he's asked for the candles is so he might get Sophie alone for a few minutes.  "Thankee, landlady,"  is all he says.  
  
When Sophie arrives with them, he takes a few moments to look her over and enjoy being so close.  It's been a rare-to-never thing in his life to be in the company of a virtuous young woman, and he's not quite sure what to say in the face of such innocence.  "You've m' thanks, Miss Sophia,"  he tells her, lingering over the act of taking the candles from her hands;  and, looking closer, one might swear Barbossa could be seen to blush.  
  
There's an intense warmth Sophie can feel radiating from him, though she doesn't understand why.  "You're welcome, Captain.  Good night, now, and I'd bid you sleep well."  
  
_Oh, I will_ ,  Barbossa thinks wickedly,  _wi' such thoughts of you t' take int' m' dreams._   "Likewise, Missy,"  he tells her, smiling.  "Likewise."

 

 

-oOo-


	2. 16 Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a change a year has wrought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even today, the Bible's "Song of Solomon" (or "Song of Songs") is sometimes considered scandalous, and clergymen often go through hoops trying to change the meaning into something less obviously sensual. For Barbossa to propose reading such passionate verses to a young woman would be wicked indeed.
> 
> While it can also means a woman's entire genital area, when Barbossa thinks of Sophie's "flower" in this case, he's referring to her hymen, or "maidenhead," which is a small bit of tissue covering part of the vaginal entrance that marks her out as being a virgin. He wants to be the man to break through it during her first sexual experience.

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

Sophie smiles at Barbossa;  a gentle smile of welcome that warms him from scalp to toes before the heat lands squarely below his belt.  _Good Lord A'mighty!_   he thinks, breathless.  _Look at you, m' darlin'!_  
  
He thought she'd attained her adulthood the year before, but though she'd been lovely, she'd not looked like this.  She's truly a woman grown now, with buxom curves that her poor clothing can't hide, and a bosom so enticing that he's itching to stroke it;   has to hook his thumbs in his belt so he won't reach out for a squeeze.    
  
_Ye've filled out so beautifully, girl,_   Barbossa can't help thinking, unaware that he's licking his lips,  _an' though ye be young still, ye're no more a child. Ye're a good girl an' virgin, I've no doubt, but I'll tell ye now:  if ye'd be pleased t' give it'me, then I'd delight in bein' th' one t' pluck that soft, wet flower a-hidin' 'neath yer skirts._  
  
That thought and the sight of her make him flush beneath the ruddy hue of his skin;  he dramatically hardens and shifts about in an attempt to hide it.  _Sophie_ ,  he says to himself.  _Sophia.  I know that name;  I learned it long ago._   It comes to him.  _Aye:  th' name Sophia means Wisdom.  Though I bain't sure there'd be all that much wisdom in it should ye choose t' lie wi' me… yet!_  
  
Barbossa steps through the doorway and gallantly offers Sophie his arm.  "Shall ye walk wi' me t' yer book so I might sign it, Miss Sophia?"  he asks, trying not to be too obvious about what a delight it is when she takes it and her breast presses against him.  
  
This first flirt between them is interrupted by Old Nan coming down the stairs.  "Sophie!"  she snaps.  "What are you doing?"  
  
Sophie reluctantly lets go of Barbossa.  "The Captain's come to stay for awhile, and I was just taking him to sign the ledger…"  
  
"No need to lay hands on him for that, girl!  Now get out back and start pulling the lemons and limes off the trees;  then room number three wants changing out!  I'll take care of the book."  
  
"Yes'm."  
  
Deflated, Barbossa watches Sophie go, then turns his attention to Old Nan.  "Fortnight, like last time,"  he says.  "Maybe three weeks.  Got a lot of business t' attend to, an' my men like this port."  
  
"The rates have gone up a bit:  costs and all."  
  
Barbossa shrugs.  "Do I look like I can't afford it?"  
  
"Of course not.  Sign here…"  
  
Once again in his garden-view room, Barbossa looks out the window to find Sophie on a step stool under the lime tree, gathering the ripe fruit into a basket.  "Psst!"  he calls.  "Miss Sophia!"  
  
She almost loses her balance as she follows the source of the sound to discover Barbossa, attractively underdressed in his shirtsleeves, leaning out of his window.  "Captain?"  
  
He grins.  "Ye may call me 'Hector,' if ye wish."  
  
"And have Nan box my ears?"  Sophie laughs.  
  
Barbossa hadn't thought of that.  "Just thought I'd be givin' ye th' option."  
  
"Is there something I can do for you?"  
  
_Aye:  ye can bring yer soft self up here an' join me in bed for a romp, for I'm seized wi' such a burnin' desire whene'er I look at ye…!_   "Wondered if ye might save me a lime or two."  
  
"Certainly."  Sophie holds up two of them, then slips them in the pocket of her smock.  "Anything else?"  
  
"What be for supper t'night?"  
  
"Roast mutton with a dish of potatoes and cream and cheese.  I grew some beautiful tomatoes, too, but nobody will eat them.  Would you like some?"  
  
Sweet, juicy tomatoes are vanishingly rare on Barbossa's table, and he eats them whenever he can. "Oh aye, I would, Missy;  thankee for askin'…"  
  
"Who are you talking to, Sophie?!"  Barbossa hears Old Nan call, whereupon he taps one ear and nods to let Sophie know he's aware of it.  
  
"No one, Granny, I'm just babbling to myself…"  
  
Reluctantly, Barbossa retreats to the bed, takes his boots off, and lies down on his back, snorting when he gets a look at the large woolly tent he's sporting.  "What?"  he says to it.  "It be daylight, ye bloody great ramrod;  ye couldn't wait 'til dark so's I could go int' town an' get ye properly fucked?  Ye tellin' me ye wanna get stroked off now?"  
  
Then he gets a brilliant idea.  
  
Unfastening the buttons on his breeches, slipping his hand inside, and withdrawing an impressive stormer, he moves to the window again, watching Sophie as she resettles her step stool under the lemon tree and starts plucking both fruit and leaves.  Her movements are graceful, the stretch of her body as she reaches for the fruit is enticing, and when she accidentally knocks her cap off and a mass of long, dark hair falls free, Barbossa groans in excitement.  "Don't put it back on, don't put it back on, please don't put it back on!"  he pants, stroking harder, insanely excited by the sudden thought of those soft tresses drifting along his bare skin.  
  
Barbossa tries to control the approach of his climax — to back it down;  to make the building pleasure last — but it's beyond his ability to keep it in check;  it strikes suddenly and comes rushing out of him in a hot flood, leaving him with wet, sticky fingers and a profound sense of satisfaction.  He might still visit one of the brothels later on just for the fun of getting a good suck from one of the toothless women who specialize in such things, but this, right now, is the high point of his day.  
  
Leaning out of his window again — and not bothering either to clean or neaten himself up, impishly pleased to know that Sophie's unaware he's still exposed and half-erect, a splatter of warm semen on the floor at his feet — he grins at her for a moment.  "Lemon, too!"  he says in a stage whisper.  "An' Missy…?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Pretty hair."  
  
Sophie blushes.  
  
"Sophie?  Sophie!"  Old Nan comes out into the garden and her mouth drops open;  she picks up the cap still lying on the ground, and gives Sophie a slap before putting it crookedly back onto her head, stuffing the black locks into the confining linen.  "Modesty, girl!  You don't want people talking about you, do you?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Granny…"  
  
"Now look what you've done:  you've dropped everything!  Pick it up, girl!"  
  
"Yes'm."  
  
But Barbossa, peeking around the edge of the window, can see the annoyed curl of Sophie's lip as the old woman flounces off;  snickers as she turns and sticks her tongue out at her.  _That's m' girl_ ,  he thinks.  _That's m' darlin' girl._  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
Sophie by now has become the official Deliverer of Candles when Barbossa is there, and Old Nan suspects nothing when, as usual, he asks for three extra.  "How old are ye now, Missy?"  he asks as he takes them.  
  
"I was sixteen in the spring."  
  
Barbossa swallows.  "Old enough."  
  
Sophie hasn't a clue what he's talking about.  "Old enough for what?"  
  
Though it's entirely improper, Barbossa opens the door a little further to give her a close look at him, coat and hat, belt and sash gone, slipping one button on his waistcoat open, then another, and another, wondering if she'll take the hint.  _Can ye not see th' bed, m' sweet?_  
  
What Sophie sees is the book lying at the foot of it, and she smiles at him.  "What are you reading, Captain?"  
  
"Hector."  
  
"Captain."  It's an exchange they will play out a dozen times during his visit, and he will never win;  not this time.  "The book?"  
  
Barbossa nods her into the room — surprised when she comes in, until he remembers that it's nothing unusual for her to do so;  that she spends most of her life cleaning these chambers — and picks up the brown-leather-covered volume.  " 'Tis the Good Book."  
  
This, Sophie did not expect.  "What?"  
  
"Astounds ye, does it, Missy?"  He flips through the pages of his Bible and settles upon one of his favorite passages.  "'Tis quite an adventursome read, if ye know where t' look.  Now, shall I recite somethin' to ye?"  Barbossa touches the tip of his tongue to his upper lip, his blue gaze warm and inviting;  and this time, he makes no effort to hide the slight heave of his chest, nor the evidence of his excitement, framed as it is by the square cut of his waistcoat's flaps lying along his legs.  "P'raps th' Song of Songs?"  
  
The expression on Sophie's face is one he can't quite decipher:  shock?  Not exactly.  Surprise?  Maybe.  But there's something else;  something he can see in the pink of her cheeks and the way she's biting her lip… "Nan says if she ever catches me reading that, she'll put my eyes out so I can never read anything else again!"  
  
How Barbossa wishes Old Nan didn't have such a stranglehold:  on what Sophie thinks, on what she does;  even on what she dares call him.  "Aye, she would,"  he sighs, unfastening another waistcoat button, aware that Sophie's surreptitiously taking it in and knows perfectly well how intimate his actions appear.  "Yer Nan's a dry old woman, lass;  don't let her make you int' one, too."  He'd run his finger along Sophie's neck and down between her breasts if she were within reach.  "Now, shall I read it t' ye, or not?"  
  
There's no 'not deciphering' her expression now;  not when it's one of such regret.  "No, Captain."  
  
He has to try.  "Hector."  
  
"Please excuse me, Captain."  
  
Barbossa shakes his head, unaware that she's heard his murmured,  "Pity,"  nor can he know that, on this night, she will for the very first time touch herself as she dreams of him, and whisper his name into the darkness.

 

  
  
-oOo-


	3. 17 Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbossa wonders how to deal with unexpected emotions.

 

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

 

This year, as he enters the inn, Barbossa doesn't know how to respond to Sophie's welcoming smile;  is unsure of what it means.  She's pure and virtuous still — that, he knows, for he can smell jaded experience on a woman ten miles away — but there's something in the way she looks at him;  something shy, yet longing… "Miss Sophia,"  he says stiffly, distantly, as though he's never met her before.  
  
Her smile fades.  "Captain."  
  
He doesn't bid her call him 'Hector' as he has so many times in the past, for if he does, perhaps she will, and if he hears his name on her lips, he's not at all sure he'll be able to keep from confessing how very much he wants her.  
  
Oh, why try to deceive himself?  He'd go down on his knees and beg for her favors, and that will never do.  
  
Once Barbossa has signed the ledger, Old Nan, being busy with other things, sends Sophie upstairs to show him to his room;  and, following close on her heels, he's aware of the faint scent of rosemary, salt, and cloves she leaves in her wake.  _What would ye taste like, ye sweet little lass?_   he wonders.  _Yer kisses, th' warm flesh of yer shoulders an' bosom… and ohhhh, if I put th' tip of me tongue t' th' virgin lips 'twixt yer soft thighs an' searched for yer little pink pearl……_  
  
He can't even finish the thought;  can't, lest he burst out of his breeches to betray what he's thinking.  
  
Sophie's explaining the amenities of the room, as she's expected to do, but Barbossa doesn't listen.  Neither does he do more than give her a nod once she's finished, sending her, puzzled and hurt, on her way without another word.  
  
That evening, he takes himself into town in search of a very particular sort of woman:  one small and dark-haired, with the darkest eyes he can find.  And she's all right, he supposes, especially when he closes his eyes tight and moans,  "Oh, Sophie!  Sophia, m' darlin!"  
  
The whore says nothing, for it doesn't matter what a man calls her once his gold is in her purse, and being called by another woman's name has been done a thousand times before.   _Hmph_ ,  she thinks as Barbossa finally speeds up and she knows his crisis is fast approaching.  _It sure beats bein' called 'Bitch!' or 'Fuckin' harlot!'_   He's paid for whatever he wants during two hours of her time, and has taken full advantage of it:  her jaw is still tired from sucking his impressively large cock, and she'll feel the pounding he's given her for the rest of the night.  But to her surprise, there are two things all men want that he hasn't done.  
  
Though Barbossa has squeezed and massaged her breasts with his hands, rolling her nipples between his fingers, he hasn't taken them into his mouth.  Stranger still, he hasn't kissed her, not once, shaking his head when she tipped her face up and offered her lips to him.  
  
Who, she wonders, is 'Sophia'?  Wife?  Sweetheart?  He doesn't seem the sort for either one.  
  
She has no idea that 'Sophia' lives in her very own town, for their paths never cross;  not even when Sophie shops in the marketplace or occasionally visits the biggest tavern to fetch ale and wine.  
  
A last hard thrust and long groan from Barbossa snaps her out of her musings.  "There now, dearie,"  she says, patting his hip while he tries to catch his breath.  "Feels good, don't it?"  
  
He doesn't answer.  He can't.  Yes, it feels good, but not like it would if she were… if only she were…  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
Sophie's still awake and working when Barbossa returns to the inn, dusting the parlor woodwork after having just cleaned the kitchen.  "Captain,"  she says.  
  
_Hector,_   he thinks.  _M' name is Hector.  Why will ye not call me by it?_   "Missy."  
  
There's a long, long pause during which it seems that Barbossa will say something to her;  something kind — perhaps playful — that will put a smile on her face.  But he's uncomfortably aware of having just come from the bed of another woman and wonders if she can see it on him, smell it on him;  wonders if she knows.  
  
It shouldn't bother him.  But it does.  
  
"I'll be biddin' ye good night then, Miss Sophia,"  is all he says.  
  
"Sleep well, Captain."  
  
_Hector._  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
The remainder of his visit is uneasy for Barbossa.  His room is as comfortable as ever, the food plentiful and delicious, but every time he looks at Sophie, he wonders what she's thinking and doesn't know what to say.  If he kissed her, would she rebuff him?  If he pulled her cap off and ran his fingers through her hair, would she slap his face?  What _is_ he seeing in her expression when their eyes chance to meet?  
  
Unlike many other outlaws in his position, Barbossa doesn't force himself on women.  Just once, many years ago, he raped a captive, and it was a horror he's never repeated;  almost as dreadful for him as it was for her.  But it doesn't stop the thoughts in his head of wrapping his arms around Sophie and driving her back against the wall, kissing her to within an inch of her life before he lifts her skirts and starts pleading with her to let him in.  
  
There's no arguing the fact that Barbossa likes women;  enjoys their comfortable softness and warmth, and all the delightful physical things he can do with them.  He's a perfectly normal, healthy man with a very strong libido, and in the course of his travels, he's done business with countless whores in brothels around the globe:  he pays his coin, he gets whatever type of voluptuous acts he wants, no muss, no fuss.  But although it's easy to admit to himself that he'd very much like to sleep with Sophie, he also finds himself in a situation that he never bargained on:  unlike those anonymous women, she's touched something deep inside him and wakened emotions he thought he'd long put away.  
  
It disturbs him to feel like this.  It disturbs him even more to find that he very much likes it.  
  
This time around, Barbossa only asks for his extra candles on very few evenings;  more than that, and he might lose his composure, saying or doing something to reveal the depth of his growing feelings for Sophie.  "M' thanks, Missy,"  he says one night, taking them from her;  carefully, so he doesn't touch her or suggest by lingering that he might like to.  "Good night."  
  
Sophie pauses, a faint look of bewildered distress on her face which she instantly quashes.  "Good night, Captain."  
  
Though everything in him wants to do it, Barbossa does not bid her call him 'Hector,' nor does he call her 'Miss Sophia' for the rest of his fortnight's sojourn at Grantham House.  

 

  
  
-oOo-


	4. 18 Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look for the definition of star-crossed (almost)-lovers, and you will find Hector Barbossa and Sophie Grantham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A _ship of the line_ is a naval warship, which has evolved into the modern term _battleship_. Heavily armed and made to blast enemy vessels out of the water by way of massive broadsides, no pirate vessel would stand a chance. Upon hearing that two of these ships have learned of his presence and are in the vicinity, Barbossa does the smart thing: he takes his lighter, faster ship and runs.

 

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

 

 

It's been a hard ten months for Barbossa, full of battles and storms;  even worse, the ennui of nothing happening at all.  He's been wounded, sustaining a bad cut on his left hip that's taken a long time to knit;  and once, becalmed far out to sea, supplies and rainfall ran so low that he feared he and the crew would starve to death, if they didn't first perish of thirst.  
  
He's exhausted to his bones, and looking forward to two or three weeks at anchor so he can settle into Grantham House and spend his time resting, reading, and eating well… and the opportunity to be near Sophie Grantham is the biggest sweetener he could possibly think of.  
  
Old Nan answers the door and has him sign the ledger, but then she calls for Sophie.  "Begging your pardon, Captain,"  she says,  "but all this running up and down the stairs is best left to younger legs than mine.  Sophie!"  The girl appears.  "Look who's come to visit.  He'll be having room number six, the same as always.  Take him upstairs now…"  
  
Sophie catches Barbossa's gaze, cursing inwardly that it's so easy for him to make her blush.  "Welcome, Captain.  Please, follow me."  
  
_T' hell an' back, an' anywhere ye'd wish t' take me!_ he can't help saying to himself as he mounts the stairs behind her.  _D' ye know what a grand sight y' are, darlin', or how much I've missed ye?_  
  
They stop by the door of chamber six, and Barbossa grows dizzy, a clutch in his chest as he moves close enough to Sophie to inhale her by-now familiar scent — fresh green rosemary, a breath of salty skin, the bite of cloves — and he makes no effort to stop imagining the erotic delights they could share.  _Oh, dear God.  'Tis years I've waited t' be this close, m' sweet Sophia.  I've known ye since a child an' young maiden, an' all those years, ye've made me welcome in yer home.  But now, ye're fully a child no longer, an' what I would not give for yer kisses;  t' feel yer arms 'round me neck an' yer naked bosom 'gainst me chest;  t' delve deep inside yer belly an' know yer woman's heat.  An' I should also desire t' rain kisses 'pon yer virgin flower, for as I'd take m' pleasure of ye, so would I wish t' taste yer sweetness an' give ev'ry pleasure 'tis in me t' bestow._   "'Tis a fine young woman ye've grown into, Miss Sophia, an' no mistake,"  he says quietly, trembling.  "Must ye rush off just yet?  Might ye not stay awhile?"  
  
The look on Sophie's face brightens at his invitation, but turns aggravated when Old Nan begins to shout for her.  "I'm sorry, Captain…"  
  
"Hector."  
  
It looks for a moment as though she will finally say it, but… "Captain.  I'm so sorry, but… I… It's just, Nan'll flay me alive if I don't get back to my work."  
  
Barbossa has never been so frustrated in all his life and toys with the idea of simply pulling Sophie into his room, but discards it as being not the way he would ever desire to treat her.  "Shame, that,"  he says, wanting to slip her cap off and stroke her hair.  "The old woman's a wretched slavedriver, not least when th' one she be drivin's her own kin.  Still…"  He smiles hopefully.  "Mayhap ye might pay me a visit on th' morrow, eh?  Say ye will."  
  
Sophie blushes an appealing shade of rose.  "Perhaps."  
  
Warmed, Barbossa smiles at her, and lets his fingers drift down her cheek and under her chin;  the first time he's allowed himself to touch her with such amorous intent.  "Ye'll not regret it, sweet."  
  
The endearment catches Sophie by surprise.  "You've… you've never called me that before…"  
  
A soft, shaky "Ohhhhh!" escapes Barbossa as he comes to the decision that now would be a very good time to kiss her, when Old Nan shouts again and the mood is broken.  "Blast!"  he mutters, thinking,  _Surely there mus' be a special circle of Hell for old women what keeps their grand-daughters enslaved an' won't allow 'em so much as one private moment._ "T'morrow, then, Miss Sophia?"  
  
Sophie gives him one of those gentle, enigmatic smiles of hers, and again says the only thing she dares:  "Perhaps."  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
"Captain!"  It's Old Nan, knocking at his door.  "Captain Barbossa!"  
  
It's times like these when he thinks it might not have been such a great idea to sleep in the nude, and in his haste, Barbossa doesn't quite get his clothing properly on.  "Aye?"  he asks, tugging his sark to cover his shoulders and grasping at his breeches so they don't fall down;  difficult when he's trying to wedge the door open a crack with a third hand he doesn't have.  
  
Old Nan's seen plenty during her years of keeping the inn, and she pays no attention to his state of deshabille.  "You've a visitor from your ship, Captain;  one of your officers, I do believe.  He said it was urgent, or I'd not have bothered you."  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
Old Nan steps aside to let Barbossa's quartermaster into the room.  
  
The man couldn't care less if Barbossa is all but naked, and fills him in on the situation as the latter gets dressed.  "We got a brace o' ships of th' line on our tail,"  he explains.  "Don't know how they found us, but we're lucky that word came quick, an' we'd best get out while we still can."  
  
"Shite an' fuck all!"  But the profanity is only half for the danger to his ship;  the other half being there's a week still to go on his stay at the inn that Barbossa can no longer take, and his Sophie — his dear little Sophie, who smiled and blushed and said she might come to him — what hopes he'd had, and now they'll have to be put off for who knows how long.  
  
There's no time for a careful settling of the bill, so Barbossa slaps down a bag of coins that's twice what he owes, sending Old Nan to the pantry for two loaves of Sophie's home-baked bread and a half-wheel of cheese so he'll have something tasty and filling to break his fast later on.  "And some apples an' oranges an' yer other fruit, right quick!"  he adds.  
  
His mind consumed by the threat to his ship and knowing he has little time to get to the docks, there's no opportunity to seek Sophie out so he might say farewell and assure her he has every intention of returning when he next has a chance.  But there's something Barbossa doesn't know:  that Sophie was wakened by Old Nan calling his name, and she now stands at her window, watching him hastily depart down the lane, furious with herself for not staying with him when he asked her.  
  
Forehead pressed to the glass, Sophie watches Barbossa get smaller and smaller, until only his big feathered hat serves to mark him out in the distance from the other men that surround him.  "God go with you, Captain, and keep you safe,"  she whispers,  "and I will be here, waiting for your return."  She grows suddenly weak and slumps to the floor, sobbing, her arms around herself and wishing she was in Barbossa's embrace.  "Please come home soon, Hector, and I'll be waiting… Hector…"

 

  
  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo-


End file.
